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45
DMITRI
“What’s this?” I ask as Rogan hands me a flat wooden box with my initials engraved on the front.
“Open it and see.”
I can tell from her smile that she’s pleased with herself. It makes me feel guilty for asking the woman to work at her age. She should be on some Caribbean beach somewhere, with her feet kicked up and a martini in hand, basking in the glow of an early retirement.
I decide that will be my Christmas gift to her this year. Go and be free. You’ve earned it.
I open the box to find six fat cigars, each nestled into their own little groove. “You didn’t have to do this, Rogan,” I murmur.
“Of course I did! You’re a new father. My husband smoked a box each after both our children.”
I snort. “Fyodor always knew how to celebrate properly. I miss the bastard.”
“As do I,” she agrees without a trace of self-pity for her loss. She pats my upper arm. “I’m expecting to see the little tyke in the flesh soon.”
“You will. Very soon,” I promise. “I’ll set it up.”
“I’ll hold you to that, sir.”
I give her a kiss on her cheek and she waves me off to my office. I’ve just stepped through when I get a whiff of a sickeningly familiar scent. Cigarette smoke and Hugo Boss cologne.
I glance to the side and find Cian standing there, with his back to me, perusing my bookshelves.
I slam the door shut and he spins slowly around. “You’ve got some fucking nerve,” I snarl, pulling out my gun and aiming it at his head.
He raises his hands in surrender. “I come in peace.”
“Like hell you do.” I walk right up to him until the barrel of my gun is kissing his forehead. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out right fucking here.”
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. He stands his ground and gazes at me, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. “I’m here as a friend.”
“We’re not friends, Cian.”
“But Wren and I are,” he insists. “And I don’t want this escalating any more than it already has.”
Gritting my teeth, I decide to wait a little longer. Hear him out. “You’d better talk fast. My finger is starting to slip.”
“I’ve been working with Vittorio?—”
“No shit, mudak. I already got the memo. If this is the information you’re about to offer me like it’s worth something, I’ve got news for you: it’s worth absolutely fuck-all.”
Cian sighs and leans forward, his skin rippling in divots around the mouth of my weapon. “The alliance with the Italians wasn’t my doing, Dmitri. It was completely out of my hands.”
“You’re trying to blame this on Cathal?”
“Only because it’s true! Vittorio approached Cathal years ago. Back when you were still married to… Elena.” His voice dips when he says her name, like he’s keenly aware of just how sensitive a trigger that is for me.
For a moment, I genuinely consider unloading my clip in his smug face.
But instead, I think about Wren. I remember that she’s out in the world with our son—and suddenly, the timing of Cian’s visit feels awfully coincidental.
I don’t believe in coincidences.
“Why would Vittorio approach Cathal when he had already formed an alliance with me?”
